


Testament

by LouPF



Category: Kaptein Sabeltann | Captain Sabertooth - Formoe
Genre: Biting, Blood, Borderline Beastiality, Crying, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Heavy Angst, Horror, M/M, Not Happy, Not a Love Story, POV Second Person, Rough Sex, Trapped, Underage Sex, Werewolf Langemann, Wolf Instincts, Wolf Sex, human/monster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:07:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25577788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LouPF/pseuds/LouPF
Summary: Langemann, once transformed, experiences everything that happens to him - though he may never, ever have control.Pinky, thinking Langemann won't remember, suffers for it.
Relationships: Langemann/Pinky
Kudos: 4





	Testament

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Crazydane666](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crazydane666/gifts).



He walks into your room and his eyes are empty.

You feel yourself reacting – his scent is sweet, and there’s familiarity to it – hardening, wagging, and pleased. He speaks to you, sweetly, but you can hear he’s tired. He locks the door, drops a bag on the floor, walks across it. Burying a hand in your fur he leans into you, and you hear yourself whining, feel yourself tugging at the chains to get closer.

The wolf wants to be loose.

You hate that he obliges.

You’re over him in minutes, whining and happy, slobbering all over him and pushing him to the floor. Your claws dig into the floor and he barely has time to get out of his clothes before you’ve tackled him again, sliding into him with far too much ease.

He doesn’t resist.

There’s a primal pleasure to it, snapping into him and the warm tightness, the roughness and the disregard. But you can’t focus. Not when he’s limp on the floor and grunting into the wood and you can’t tell if it’s in pleasure or pain; not when your teeth sink too far into the fur he’s put around his neck; not when you taste blood on your tongue and fear in your heart.

At one point you think he might be crying, for he’s shaking and trembling and there are wet spots on the floor – but then again, he could be quivering in bliss and the spots might be drool or cum – or worse, blood.

It takes forever for the wolf to be sated. He’s lifeless on the floor by then, and only the scarce sigh or grunt shows he’s yet alive. He’s marred in blood and bitemarks, too many in areas the fur could not reach, but you could.

You would be sobbing, if you could. As it is, you pull out far too fast and far too harshly, and he doesn’t get up for a while. The wolf gets worried, a bit uncertain – you whine, step over to him, nudge his head.

He raises it and his expression is broken.

He smiles when he sees you, raises a hand slowly to wipe at his tear-stained cheeks. He says something, and you think it might be a greeting.

After wiping his cheek he reaches out a hand towards you, trying to push himself to sit – it’s clear he’s asking for help, near begging for it, and you wish the wolf wasn’t so stupid. It’s satisfied knowing its mate lives, and you trudge away to lie in a corner, exhausted.

Out of the corner of your eye you see him crying.

After a while he approaches you with staggering steps, and you wag your tail while he meticulously combs through your matted fur before chaining you up again. A long few moments are spent while he leans into you, silent and still.

You wish he would stay longer.

When you go to breakfast the next morning, human and aware, he sits by the table and the bruises beneath his eyes are horrific, testaments to the cruelty you keep putting him through because you are _afraid_.

He looks at you and smiles, and he is tired. “Morning, dad.”

You wet your lips. You can’t meet his eyes. “Morning, Pinky.”


End file.
